The Queen's Gambit (18 page)

Crying out, he swung at her with his wounded arm, splattering his blood across her face and gown. Ducking the blow, Pheresa stumbled, grabbed up her skirts, and ran for the palace walls. She screamed for help at the top of her lungs.

Kolahl came pounding after her, gaining rapidly, and she screamed again.

A sentry on the wall peered down at her from the crenellations, shouting a question.

“Help me!” she cried. “In the name of Thod, help me!”

Something hit her back with terrible force, driving her to the ground. Stunned, she could not seem to breathe properly. Neither could she move, not even when Kolahl began to drag her through the tall grass. Vaguely she heard more shouts and the sound of running feet.

She closed her eyes a moment, then there was a struggle over her, violent and brief. The next thing she knew she was being lifted in someone's arms.

Terrified, she cried out.

“You're safe now,” a stranger's voice said.

Opening her eyes, Pheresa gazed into a handsome face with skin tanned dark gold. His wide-spaced eyes were the color of a flask of honey shelved in the sunlight, and his black hair fell in loose curls across his brow. He wore the tunic and green cloak of the palace guard, and in his powerful arms she knew that she was safe.

He cradled her closer to his strong chest. “My lady, speak if you can!” he said urgently. “This blood on your gown. Is it yours or your attacker's?”

“Sebein,” she murmured as darkness engulfed her senses. “A Sebein . . .”

Horrified, Talmor stared down at the maiden now lying limp and unconscious in his arms, her blond hair shimmering like gold, then turned his gaze to the dead man lying at his feet. What had sent a Sebein assassin to harm a maiden this lovely, this innocent? He stared down into her face, entranced by the pale perfection of her skin and the dark curve of her lashes against her cheeks. She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

How little she weighed despite the volume of her skirts and long cloak. Blood splattered her cheek and gown. Her cloak was half torn off one shoulder, and her slippers were ruined. Her skirts were soaked wet and dirty, and her hair hung in a wild tangle, falling out of a loose braid. Yet there was no question that she was a lady of the court. Even so, she looked sweet and gentle, unlike so many of the women here. He felt a surge of protectiveness so powerful it staggered him.

“My lady,” he said, giving her a little shake to rouse her. She did not stir, and indeed her face was too pale and still.

Freeing one hand, he pressed it to her throat.

Her pulse was racing and wild. He wiped away a smear of the blood and sniffed it. A stink of copper and something feral made him grimace and wipe his fingers clean. Not her blood, but the Sebein's, he told himself. The air felt strange and unsettled, as though a spell had been thrown. Talmor frowned, suspecting it might have hit her. If that were so, she needed assistance quickly.

By now a squadron of guardsmen led by Sir Pem, the duty knight, came running up to surround him.

“What's happened?” he demanded. “Is she dead?”

“No, but she may be wounded.”

“Aye,” the duty knight said, frowning at her. “Bloodied, ain't she? And been fair mauled by the look of her.”

“Fought her way free of attack,” Talmor said, nudging the corpse with his foot. “When I saw her, she was running with a dagger in her hand, screaming for help.”

“And this ruffian was in pursuit?”

“Aye.”

One of the guards rolled the dead man onto his back.

“Before she swooned,” Talmor said grimly, “she said he was a Sebein.”

Everyone reached instinctively for their weapons and stepped back from the corpse. Sir Pem looked very grim. “The lot of you, fan out and start searching for any more of them. Lors, you and Itienne head for the old church. Check it out, but take no chances. If you find anything, shout for the rest of us.”

Nodding, the men scattered to begin a search. Young Waltem picked up a small dagger from the trampled grass and came running back with it. “Look, sir!” he cried. “Got blood on it.”

“Give that to me,” Pem said gruffly, wrapping a cloth around it with swift dexterity. “Not much of a weapon.”

“The lady's knife, no doubt,” Talmor said. He hoisted her higher in his arms, impatient to go. “Where do I take her? The infirmary?”

The duty knight frowned over her, studying her face again. Suddenly he blinked and gave a low whistle. He looked up sharply and met Talmor's puzzled gaze. “Great Thod!”

“What? Do you recognize her, sir?”

“Aye.” Pem backed away. “I'm thinking that's Lady Pheresa du Lindier, niece of the king.”

Talmor felt hollow with astonishment. “The Lady of the Chalice?”

“Get her inside, quickly.”

“Aye, sir.”

“I'll pass the word that all the gates are to be secured at once. Damne, the commander will have our guts on a string. How'd she get outside? Bribed the back gatekeeper, I'll warrant. Damned old fool.” He glared at Talmor worriedly. “There's going to be an uproar, and we'll take the blame for it, damn our souls. Talmor, jump to it!”

Talmor headed for the corner turret as fast as he could carry the lady. Despite the chilly morning air, he was already sweating. Thus far, he'd managed to fit in and perform his lowly duties without much difficulty. Sir Kedrien had kept his dislike to himself, it seemed, although Talmor knew his sergeant had orders to ride him hard. Now, he could not help but come to official notice, carrying in the king's niece. He'd have to make a report. There would be an investigation, just as Pem said, of how she'd gained exit at this early hour without being noticed or stopped. If a maidservant wanted to go frolic in the woods, well enough, but a lady of this rank and importance had no business being outside without guards or attendants or companions. Whom had she gone to meet?

The idea of her sporting with some dandified courtier made Talmor scowl. Swiftly, he yanked his emotions back under control. It was no business of his what she did, unless her folly brought him under review for dereliction of duty. Realizing he could be blamed for the whole matter, if someone wished to be unjust, Talmor frowned and quickened his pace.

He climbed the twisting turret stairs until he reached the walkway atop the wall. Holding the lady with the greatest care, he carried her at a rush into the palace proper and was heading for the wing of private apartments when a stern voice brought him up short.

“You there, guard! What are you about, slipping your wench back to her bed?”

Talmor turned around and found himself face to face with a steward. He glared at the man. “It's the Lady Pheresa, fool. Attacked and hurt.”

The steward gawked, his face turning bone white. “What?”

“Quick! Show me where to take her.”

With a blink, the steward regained his wits and hurried down the corridor. “This way!”

Together they rushed along. Only the servants were stirring as yet, and few of those were in sight. The steward hailed a sleepy little page and gave the boy a rough shake by one shoulder.

“Get the physician. Make haste, boy! Send him to Lady Pheresa's apartments.”

Round-eyed, the boy ran to do as he was told.

“Down here,” the steward said, pointing.

Talmor rounded a turn in the passageway, went up a short flight of stairs, and came to a door bearing a coat of arms. The steward knocked urgently while Lady Pheresa moaned and stirred in Talmor's arms. He realized he was clutching her too tightly in his concern and gentled his grip. Her eyes fluttered open, soft brown within curling lashes, then closed. She looked paler than ever.

He feared he had taken too long to get her assistance. Did anyone here know how to counteract a Sebein spell? “Her priest?” he asked. “Her personal chaplain? He must be summoned as well.”

The steward continued his barrage of knocking, and at last the door was opened by an indignant woman wrapped in a shawl and still heavy-eyed with sleep.

“Go away, you stupid man!” she scolded. “Have you no regard for my lady's—”

Catching sight of Lady Pheresa lying limp in Talmor's arms, she loosed a muffled shriek. “Oh, sweet Tomias, she's dead! My lady's dead!”

“Quiet,” the steward said roughly, pushing his way in. “Here, guard. Bring her this way.”

Talmor shouldered past the servingwoman, who was moaning into her hands. “Not dead,” he said curtly. “But hurt. The physician's been sent for. She'll need her chaplain as well.”

“My lady! My lady!” the woman cried, ignoring him as she rushed ahead, bleating and fluttering her hands in dismay.
She opened the door at the other end of the little sitting room to reveal a small, but splendidly appointed bedchamber.

There was no time to gander about. Talmor laid his burden gently on the bed and smoothed her golden hair back from her face. Even disheveled and splattered with blood, she looked beautiful. So fragile, so vulnerable, so exquisite. Gazing down at her, he found himself enchanted by the pale dusting of freckles across her delicate nose.

“My lady! Oh, my lady!” Another woman joined the first, both bending over her and weeping.

Talmor thought them useless and exchanged a look with the steward, who rolled his eyes.

“I'll see what's keeping that boy,” the steward said.

“Get the lady's chaplain,” Talmor insisted.

The steward frowned, looking aghast. “You really think there's need for her to receive final unction?”

Realizing he'd been misunderstood, Talmor opened his mouth, but the steward said brokenly, “Poor sweet lady. And after all she's gone through.”

The elder of the two women raised her head. “She'll not die, not in my care. Quick, there's a fire to build and water to fetch.”

The steward bowed. “I'll see it's done,” he said and off he hurried.

“Let's get her out of these wet clothes. You, out,” the woman said to Talmor.

He clamped his powerful arms across his chest and refused to budge. “I stay until her ladyship is safe,” he said. “ 'Tis my duty.”

Gray-haired and plump, the woman was not cowed by him. Putting her hands on her ample hips, she said, “You can guard my good lady out there, at the door, as is seemly. There's no need for an oaf like you in here.”

With a last look at Pheresa, he retreated to the corridor. By then the court physician had arrived, looking flustered, and several gawkers followed. Talmor stayed on guard sternly, thwarting the courtiers who sought admittance. He knew the
idle curiosity in their faces, knew they wanted only to stare and gossip.

More people came, sighing when a priest in official robes of white and yellow hurried in. A woman began to weep, and the chatter quieted for a moment before a buzz of new speculations began. Two men laid a wager on how fast the lady would die, and Talmor gritted his teeth against the urge to bash their heads together. He kept his place, rigid and grim, ignoring all that was said and done by the spectators.

Then a commotion could be heard in the distance. People turned to look, and a page ran up crying a warning that the king was coming.

Talmor stiffened, his heart suddenly thudding in his chest with excitement. As yet he'd been given no duty that brought him close to the king. Now, at last, he was going to see his majesty.

Seconds later, heralds pushed through, parting the crowd. The king, his protector, and his entourage strode through, ignoring the bows and curtsies. Talmor stepped aside from the door, coming to full attention and saluting as he'd been taught.

The king swept past him without a glance. His protector followed. The rest of his majesty's companions, including a handful of guardsmen, waited outside.

Two of the guardsmen gave Talmor a nod. “Return to your post.”

He knew a momentary sense of rebellion. Was he not to know how the lady fared? But he could not argue against orders.

Saluting, he strode rapidly away. Inside, he felt as though he'd been knocked asunder, and barely knew what he was doing as he returned to his station on the wall and resumed sentry duty until midmorning, when he was relieved. “Report to the guardhouse,” he was told.

“How goes the search?”

His relief shrugged and spat. “Demon's luck, as usual. If there's any more, they've gone. Like chasing smoke, them Sebeins and their black arts. You keep your Circle good and tight
around your neck and get yourself to the guardhouse on the double, like I said.”

The guardhouse was a square brick structure located in the midst of the barracks. As Talmor approached, he passed a detail of guardsmen clad in mail and hauberks standing at attention in double rows before Barracks Four. A sergeant was inspecting them, bawling out orders for a more detailed search.

Grimly tightening his mouth, Talmor stepped through the open guardhouse door and found it abustle with activity. An officer had rounded up the barracks sergeants and was briefing them with a curt series of orders. Security of the entire palace had been tightened. The main gates had been shut, and no one was to go in or out until further orders, no matter what the personage's rank. Talmor glanced at them swiftly, but Sergeant Goddal was not among them.